


Strepsils and Brothers

by Nichellen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 01:08:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nichellen/pseuds/Nichellen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock sucked on his latest Strepsil and scowled</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strepsils and Brothers

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [Reluctantabandon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/reluctantabandon/pseuds/reluctantabandon) for the beta, and [Otter](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LapOtter)for the prompt!

Sherlock sucked on his latest Strepsil and scowled. John was slumped across the kitchen table, his head lowered so far over his mug that he seemed to be attempting to insert it into the same hot water, honey and lemon concoction that Sherlock’s own hands nursed. Sherlock smirked at the thought, and then scowled again. Smiling hurt.

Everything between his shoulders and his ears hurt. John knew this. John had let Sherlock have Strepsils. Apparently (John had been quick to establish) neither of them actually had Strep, but the lozenges still helped. Sherlock might have preferred something stronger -- but no. When he had suggested that option to John, John had given him a look, and -- no. Sherlock breathed. And winced. He closed his lids.

When he opened sticky eyes it was in response to the buzz of a text alert in his pocket. The light in the room was different. John was gone. There was a note by his elbow, which, after blinking at it for an unacceptable amount of time, Sherlock was able to determine was from John:

Gone to bed. Come when you wake up. Didn’t want to move you.

John must be feeling it with the same severity, then. Sherlock noted the increased illegibility of John’s scrawl -- the way the loop of the y was more of an afterthought than John’s usual decisive downwards stroke. The thought did not make Sherlock feel better. Now, what -- ah yes -- he had received a text.

Mycroft says you’re ill. Get well. The cases will wait. Stay away from the Yard. -- GL.

Ah, Lestrade. Sherlock’s usually adroit fingers fumbled without their accustomed dexterity at the touch screen before Sherlock tossed his phone onto the table. Ever the caring nurse, as always. Sherlock cringed when the further implications of Lestrade’s communications floated to the surface of his brain with a lethargy that he was aware enough to detest. He flicked a one fingered salute to the room for his brother’s benefit, but debugging (again) would have to wait until his joints ached less.

John.

John?

Ah yes, John had gone to bed. Clever, clever man. Sherlock would follow. When he sat back, his neck complained at the angle at which he had been... resting (merely resting his eyes, of course), and the effort it took to brace himself against the table was unacceptable. Something would have to be done about that. But... later, perhaps. When the sound of the chair scraping against the kitchen floor had ceased to reverberate around his skull.

Sherlock tried very, very hard not to swallow.

When he stood, Sherlock’s legs trembled slightly. He would have to follow John rather quickly if he didn’t want to utterly exhaust himself on the way. Sherlock ran his hand along the wall as he went in a manner which was in no way for support or a grope. The bedroom door was still open slightly, and it was dark beyond. John must have had enough energy to pull the curtains against the evening sun. The bedroom door swung inwards relatively easily under Sherlock’s weight, and Sherlock in no way stumbled against the change from tile to carpet as he passed the threshold.

John looked up blearily at the noise and held his free arm up from where he had sprawled across his side of the bed. He was still clothed, so he wouldn’t have any reason to complain if Sherlock stayed that way, too. The thought of fiddling with his buttons made Sherlock’s fingers ache.

John smiled, only half awake, as Sherlock lowered himself to the bed and made himself one half of a set of spoons. Sherlock’s lids closed under their own weight when his head connected with his pillow, and as John fussed sleepily with the duvet to cover Sherlock properly, the last thing Sherlock remembered feeling was the brush of a kiss against the nape of his neck.


End file.
